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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293426">The Marbled Stone</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJSbarcea/pseuds/AJSbarcea'>AJSbarcea</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Naruto</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Angst, Heavy Angst, M/M, dealing with grief, don't read if you don't like sad, seriously it's sad</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-05</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 08:27:15</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Not Rated</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,282</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26293426</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJSbarcea/pseuds/AJSbarcea</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It doesn’t hurt; at least, not at first.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Hatake Kakashi/Maito Gai | Might Guy</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>The Marbled Stone</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Angst request. And by angst I mean I might as well make myself cry.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>It doesn’t hurt; at least, not at first. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>In fact, it doesn’t even hurt after the funeral, or the days following, or the months ensuing. He thinks he might be locked in a daze, unable to come to grips with reality. It might have been out of self preservation, maybe it was a product of denial. Either way, for the longest, damning time it doesn’t hurt. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Even if it should, even if he tries to will himself to cry, he can’t. There’s nothing left for him to feel, to mourn. All that is left are the memories, and even those fade to grey as time continues, never pausing once to let him catch his breath. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>The rain outside is a deafening howl of sorrow, and it should echo the sorrow that engulfs his heart, but there’s nothing there that spurs an ache or a pang. It is as hollow as a wooden puppet, his body dangling on strings, rigidly dancing to the rhythm of a life he once knew, but no longer recognizes. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Maybe he should feel anger. He would be justified. Maybe he should let the rage consume him, and hate the hand that he has been dealt. Maybe he should loathe the ones that move on, that can continue to smile even after all that they have lost. Shouldn’t he be furious? Shouldn’t he be ripping the ground up from its roots, screaming to the sky above about the injustice, the </span>
  <em>
    <span>unfairness</span>
  </em>
  <span> of it all? </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He does nothing instead, just glares out his window at the endless expanse of grey that accompanies the vicious storm that uproots the trees and floods the valleys in torrents of fury. The wind is a cutting blade that threatens to tear the wood from his house, but as if cursed to remain an unbreakable pillar, his house endures the brutal blows of the storm, like his spirit continues to take the brunt of a life intent on damning him. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He doesn’t think much other than off handed observations, and he finds himself often lost when bathed in the scornful eye of the moon, listlessly staring up at the sky, soaking in the ivory, silverish rays that highlight all that is wrong with the world. All that is gone. When the moon gazes back, so forlorn and alone in it’s dark throne, he can’t think of anything. He can’t feel anything, and so he cast his eyes downward, ashamed of himself. Ashamed of his own failures. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Sometimes, he is lost in the stillness of the water behind his cabin, a great, gray lake that seems to have lost its luster as it’s murky waters reflect only a hazy image of himself. Wasn’t there once a time he used to be overjoyed coming to this same lake? Wasn’t there once a time that he smiled at the mere mention of it? Didn’t it used to glisten beneath the sun, a sparkly summertime haven? Where had that lake disappeared to? What was this lifeless thing that took its place instead? Why did he feel </span>
  <em>
    <span>nothing</span>
  </em>
  <span> when he gazed at a thing that used to bring him joy? Like water slipping through the cracks of his fingers, those once happy memories fade into the same grey that dim’s the lake's surface, and so he turns away. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Outside his cabin, there used to be a lovely field of grass littered with wildflowers of all colors, a glistening rainbow of earth whenever he sat on his porch and reveled in the breeze of early spring. Once upon a time it brought him peace to linger, listening to the whispers of winds ruffling the grass, of loose flower petals drifting in circled patterns along the warming air. In a way, he is still at peace, but this peace is grim and decidedly horrible. This peace settles like an iron weight in his gut, and feels nothing like the flurry of butterflies that once fluttered in his chest. This peace weighs him down, makes his body feel like lead, and it is an effort to even gaze upon the meadow that once made him feel tranquil. Now it is nothing but wilted weeds, a product of his neglect, and he can’t bear to look at it anymore. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He can’t bear to do anything without all these subtle reminders of times long since passed, of feelings that now evade him like the life he once cherished. There is nothing for him to love anymore, nothing for him to mourn except the cracked, broken stone that plants itself immobile in the ground, an unending, haunting vision of something that will forever elude him. It stares at him with restless, knowing eyes, tugging at his heart, twisting his gut, and burning his eyes as he glowers at that wretched stone with the wretched scrawl that gives birth to a name. He hates it. He hates that damned stone, and for once the anger returns to him like the flash floods that claim the rivers, like the howling winds that tear up the earth. He hates this cold, lifeless thing that reminds him of memories he wishes he could forget, of feelings he will never have and never experience again. He wishes he could rip the damned thing up, and toss it into that eerily still lake, and disturb that ugly, horrid surface. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>Following the anger comes the heart wrenching sorrow, a sorrow that sends him out of his chair and onto his knees as his fingers clutch at soaked earth, begging for this reality not to be the truth, for this to be some awful nightmare he can awaken from. And yet that grey, marbled stone glares back at him, irrefutable proof of his new life, a life he wants nothing to do with if this will be how he spends the rest of his days. Like the burn from the piercing rain, prickling his skin in its wicked coldness, sharp tears finally escape the barrier of his eyes, melding with the rain the pelts his cheeks. Broken sobs like that of the storms distant thunder rumble from his throat and he hates and mourns and wishes for this not to be true all at once, for that name not to be a fact written in stone. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>But it is there, as sure as Gai is alive and breathing. That name glares back at him, reminding him of a time when he used to be happy. When he used to be loved. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <em>
    <span>Kakashi Hatake</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It reads, a simple designation, an unremarkable design for such a remarkable man, and Gai can’t stand to look at it anymore. He can’t bear it. And so, as the storm ends, Gai turns away as he crawls back into his wheelchair, which is another permanent fixture in his life. The grey of the lake is still once more, the weeds of his meadows crookedly mocking him, as the moon reveals itself from behind grumbling clouds. With a trembling hand, Gai grasps at the wheels to his chair. The tremors stop, and Gai’s broken expression hardens once more. </span>
</p>
<p>
  <span>He feels nothing. He has to, because at least nothing is better than dealing with the loss of someone more precious to him than life itself. The storm is but a forgotten moment as Gai settles in for the long night, it is nothing but a fluke in these endless days that mold and meld into one. Tomorrow, Gai will awaken again, and wish he hadn’t. And tomorrow, that marbled stone will still be there, tucked away in the weeds of a dying meadow, soaked by the shores of a still greyed lake, and beneath the sorrowed gaze of a dimmed, lonely moon.   </span>
</p>
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